The Art of Juggling
by shira syndrome
Summary: Sometimes children's games bring more pain than pleasure. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference. [shounen ai, dash of shota]


Disclaimer: Well shit, you found me out.

30 kisses theme #21_ - violence; pillage/plunder; extortion_

a/n: Surprisingly, I liked the end result. However, if little Alby getting some love by an old dude gets your squick on, then beware.

* * *

**The Art of Juggling**

* * *

He finds him alone in the dormitory, slumped idly against the headboard, sulky, sulky. Alone, even though his worst fear is being alone, and perhaps, Rubedo thinks, that is why he knows everything about him and yet nothing at all: because his twin is simply made of contradictions. 

Sulky, and yet, perhaps, waiting. A contradiction that makes perfect sense. 

* * *

They never fought over important things, but instead they always fought about the silly ones. Not Yuriev or the Institute, not Sakura or each other - but what to do during their spare time and bad test results and misplaced uniforms.

Rubedo had an inner fire, everyone said so, and that angry fire sent Albedo slinking away, brow-bent and pouting, off to lurk in the fringes. As it is, an angry flame can stay lit for a long time before it burns out. So it was Albedo who would come back like a mournful puppy, tail drawn between his legs, whether it was his fault or not, and he would give a hesitant smile and they would be fine again. 

It was like an unspoken game with unspoken rules that the two of them played, unspoken.

They fought again, as usual, about this or that. 

Argument already forgotten in their long line of arguments, Rubedo waited for his twin's eventual return, playing games with Nigredo in the atrium.

That time, however, Albedo did not come back to him as usual. 

* * *

Yes, waiting, no doubt of it. Waiting patiently for Rubedo to come for him, even though waiting is his worst faculty, and perhaps, Rubedo thinks, he should have realized it, when he knows everything about him after all.

Albedo is still lazy and slack when Rubedo climbs up on the bed. Their eyes meet. 

"You came for me?" he says, and yet his lips don't move; it echoes in their heads, along their link, and it's not even a question at all but a fact.

Rubedo knows Albedo hates facts - things known to be true and real, solid, irrefutable deeds and acts that cannot be perverted into something else. Albedo hates facts because he has not the confidence to use them.

_You came for me._

It is a fact and Albedo has confidence.

Rubedo begins to think he knows nothing at all. 

* * *

Rubedo may be able to stay angry for a long time, but he eventually tires of being angry just as fire sputters from lack of fuel, and it is true that he can grow tired of waiting, too. 

And he has waited a long time. Albedo has still not come back to him.

Now he is confused and a little annoyed, and he hates being either for any amount of time at all. He doesn't remember how many times he has already announced his displeasure, but he does it once more anyway. 

He is with Nigredo and Citrine in the shelter of the trees, playing out war games in the dirt with the tips of their fingers and little twigs. They usually play with four, but without Albedo it means Rubedo has to play on a side all by himself. 

He is losing, and is more annoyed than ever.

Rubedo decides he has had enough and gets to his feet. He will go search for his wayward half-heart. 

Nigredo and Citrine look up at him. They both wear quiet expressions; they are aware of the game between the two, but neither has voiced their respective apprehension or disdain. Citrine says nothing, and uses her hand to rub out their afternoon's work. It is the Executioner who finally speaks.

"Maybe you'd better not. Maybe Albedo just wants to be... alone."

Rubedo laughs a little, knowing the last thing Albedo wants is to be alone, not knowing, however, that he is both right and wrong. "C'mon, give me a break. Do you even _know_Albedo?" Even as he speaks, he is breaking more of the unspoken rules of their unspoken game and is searching, searching...

_Do you?_ Nigredo shoots back, and the blue-green-black voice hisses along his concentration, momentarily blocking him from probing along the link.

Albedo always wants to be near him, to be at his side, to cling to him. Always.

"Of course," he says, and there is finality in his voice. 

Nigredo shrugs, and with Citrine's prompting, they start a new game between the two of them. 

Albedo did not come back to him, so Rubedo will go find him and drag him back; with a cuff to his ivory head, they will be fine again. 

* * *

Rubedo is angry again; an anger more blacker and poignant then before. He can feel it wriggling up from his stomach to his chest, to his face, to his fingers, more and more and more. 

Albedo hates it when he's angry. Rubedo knows that. He grabs Albedo's shoulders, fingertips digging into flesh, and forces him onto his back. He is not gentle and there will be bruises. Albedo hates bruises too. Rubedo knows that. He clambers over the unmoving body, forcing the other to take his weight. His fingers twitch from his twin's shoulders up to that pale, delicate neck, bent so vulnerably.

But when he looks down into that face, he sees Albedo is smiling.

"Are you mad?" he asks, violet eyes half-lidded, and that is not a question either. 

They were not raised as idiots. Rubedo knows what a quicksand trap looks like, but it has already closed over his head and he is already drowning. It is too late to try and escape now.

"_Yes_," he growls with both mouth and mind, and if nothing else, he will make sure Albedo knows it. 

He jerks the other's uniform off his shoulders, counting the small pink blemishes on the pale skin that were not made by him. 

The sight of them infuriates him more, and Albedo smiles wider. 

* * *

He is somewhere in the east corridor, and Rubedo knows he knows, for Albedo's mind is quickly closed off with a mental barrier. He wants to be found.

Rubedo hums to himself as he walks - a song Sakura made up especially for him on her piano - and thinks maybe once again when he has Albedo in tow, they'll go back to the little dirt patch under the trees and see if Nigredo and Citrine will have a rematch. 

He comes up to the door where Albedo's purple-violet essence is hiding behind, some storage room no one ever uses anymore. The door is unlocked. It opens with hardly a sound, and Rubedo pokes his head inside, ready to accept Albedo's unspoken apology so they can forget about it and move on. 

All his little plans for the rest of the day crumble and die at the sight.

He has time to wonder why his second ghost of a heartbeat picks up in excitement while his own falters in shock before he bites through his lip and blood wells in his mouth. 

* * *

There is nothing gentle in the way they fuck. 

If Rubedo ever imagined having sex with another person, he never thought it would be so raging and hot and aching and utterly satiable in a way that undermines the humanity they hope to strive for. 

Sweat-slicked and burning from the inside out, Rubedo tastes his twin's collarbone, his throat, but never his lips. His muscles draw thin and tired, thrusting hard against the body beneath him, curled around each other as they are, erections crushed between frenzied bodies. 

There is a mechanical voice overhead, an announcement for units 627 through 649 to report to - and the rest is drowned out by the tandem of their hoarse voices as they hit the limit. 

* * *

Wasn't it part of the rules of their game? 

That Albedo should come back to him after they fight, instead of bent over a creaking maintenance rack, half-naked and being touched (_tanned fingers running along a pale canvas of skin that has never been painted on before, sliding through moon-spun hair that has only ever been ruffled by his own hand_) by a man three times his age? 

That he should be complaining about all the boring things he did while waiting for Rubedo to stop being mad at him, instead of making such a low, velvety noise (_a pink tongue darting out to wet parted lips, breath catching on the taste of pleasure_) from the back of his throat?

This can't be right. Albedo is Albedo, and he hates strangers, and he hates being touched by strangers, and he would never ever betray -

Betray. Betray?

It is hot and the musk of sex is settling in his hair and clothes, but he can't move. He was looking for Albedo and he found him, and this isn't supposed to be part of it.

There is a hiss of pleasure and a hand slides up Albedo's naked side. The man turns his head - and that face looks familiar... Rubedo is already throwing himself outside when the voice touches him.

_You recognize him? Yeah, he's the one who cleans the dive pods. Hey, Rubedo, you aren't going to report it, are you?_

Rubedo hits the floor and gags. 

* * *

The act is done and they lay panting in a snarl of limbs.

It may be over, but they will never be over, never be finished, no matter if they wish it or not. That game isn't so much of a game; or maybe it is, depending on the perspective, one that will go on being played until the day both of them are cold and dead. 

Maybe then they will be free of each other, but for now everything remains as it is: unspoken.


End file.
